


Lumiere, Darling

by dea_liberty



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fingering, Fluff, Genderswap, Girl Direction, Jealousy, Lesbians, Minor Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Smut, The Biggest Girlband in the World, girl!Harry, girl!Louis, lesbian smut, light kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dea_liberty/pseuds/dea_liberty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s so gone it’s not even funny. It really isn’t funny because falling in love with your best friend is such a stupid, idiotic, dumb thing to do, and there’s only ever a happy ending in romantic comedies. Louis (she claims, loudly and publicly whenever anyone will listen despite the fact that she’ll watch them with Harry any time Harry asks her to) hates romantic comedies.  </p>
<p>The thing is, when it really comes down to it, Louis never stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lumiere, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> My humble addition to Girl Direction Month this merry September! I really enjoyed writing Girl Direction, and I'll definitely be trying to add a little bit more to the collection of lesbian fic over the course of this month because lesbians are _brilliant_.
> 
> Thank you to Star and Vae for cheerleading and handholding, and the quick and dirty beta work on this fic. This wouldn't exist without you girls. Any and all remaining mistakes are of my own doing. Title taken shamelessly from Ed Sheeran.

Harry’s bra comes off almost the moment she steps off the stage, removed in four well-practiced moves. She doesn’t even miss a step. She swings it in her hand as she bounces along next to Louis, chattering happily about the night, talking about this sign and that sign she’d seen from where she was. Her tits, Louis can’t help but notice, bounce right along with her, nipples dark and slowly hardening under the white t-shirt Harry has on. She tries not to stare but Harry doesn’t make it easy. In fact, almost everyone they pass in the corridor stares, some more blatantly than others. Louis distributes glares like machine gun bullets, narrowing her eyes at every single person that dares to leer at Harry, curling an arm around Harry’s waist and tucking her in against her side protectively. Some of them have the grace to look away. 

Harry is, as always, completely oblivious to the effect she has on other people. She’s completely oblivious to the effect she has on _Louis_ which, as Louis tells herself every single day, is for the best.

There is a certain amount of guilt in lusting after your best friend, especially when said best friend has absolutely no idea and therefore doesn’t bother with silly things like modesty. There is also, if Louis is completely honest, a certain amount of guilty pleasure because, if Harry did find out, she might stop doing things like lounging around the house naked or cooking in just her underwear. And if she did that, Louis’ daydreams (and her wank fantasies) would probably get significantly less vivid.

Definitely a guilty pleasure. And definitely a fairly unhealthy dose of emotional masochism to go with it.

Harry’s already starting to unbutton her jeans as they make their way out of the venue and towards the waiting tour bus.

There’s a patter of feet behind them and, a moment later, Niall crashes into Louis’ other side.

“Right, bitches,” she declares. “Day off tomorrow. Let’s _party_. Where’re we headed?”

“To the bus,” Louis says with a laugh. “Me and Haz agreed that we’d have a nice night in and marathon some Sex and the City. Gemma packed her DVDs in with our stuff.”

“Watching Sex and the City when you could be _living it_ ,” Niall protests. “C’mon, Tommo, don’t be boring.”

Harry gasps in mock outrage. “Sex and the City is not boring,” she says, wrapping both her arms around Louis’ waist and tugging her towards her. “C’mon, Lou, don’t associate with… with that uncultured pixie.”

Niall keeps her hold on Louis. She and Harry mock glare at each other over Louis’ head, and Louis just waits patiently, staying as stable as she can and trying not to let either of them unbalance her enough that she falls off her heels. They’re both yelling at each other, insults getting progressively more creative.

“Fine!” Niall finally huffs, letting go and all but pushing Louis towards Harry. Louis stumbles and, for a moment, she thinks she might actually end up twisting her ankle, but Harry catches her and steadies Louis against her body. Louis relaxes and looks over her shoulder Niall. “ _Be_ boring then. It’s like you two’re fifty and have been married a hundred years or something, you’re so boring. I’m going to go drag Liam out. She _always_ wants to go out.” Niall flounces off towards the bus, and they can hear her shout of, “Leeeeeeeyum,” before the door closes again.

“We are so not boring,” Harry declares as they start walking – at a far more sensible pace than Niall – towards the bus again. “Sex in the City marathons are amazing. Niall just doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Louis says easily, hopping up the steps of the bus and heading through to back where their entertainment station is. She already knows what’s happening behind her – Harry’s sliding those stupidly, impossibly long legs out of her impossibly long jeans, and Louis really, really doesn’t need to see that when there’s a distinct possibility that she’s going to be spending the night curled up against Harry.

On nights like this, she’s really, really glad that she’s not a guy. Thinking really stupidly dirty thoughts with best friend in your lap is one thing, springing a boner to show just how dirty those thoughts are would be another thing altogether.

Popping a boner, however, would probably be the more honest response. Louis is a terrible person who takes advantage of Harry in all the ways she’d kill other people for doing. She’s a terrible, _horrible_ person and she absolutely cannot help it.

Harry waits for her to settle before climbing half on top of her and half on the sofa, resting her cheek on Louis’ head. Her boobs are right there, right under Louis’ nose, nipples beautifully budded from the cold and from the friction with the fabric. Louis has a one-sided love affair with Harry’s breasts. They’re incredible. They’re fucking insanely _perfect_. Louis thinks they’d sit just right in her hands – not too big, not too small, round and bouncy and as beautiful as the rest of her.

For just a moment, she entertains the idea of leaning down and sucking at one through Harry’s t-shirt, wonders exactly how hard they’d get under her tongue – and pushes that thought firmly out of her mind.

Harry, oblivious as always, throws one of her legs over Louis’ lap, and Louis wants nothing more to push her back into the sofa and spend hours worshiping her skin with her tongue.

She’s a _terrible_ friend, and Harry is absolutely detrimental to her sanity. Maybe Louis should have taken up Niall’s offer after all. Maybe she should have gone out and got some of these raging hormones of need and lust out of her system before she has to spend another week at close proximity with Harry. Maybe she could have found beautiful, sensual girl she could grind against in a club, one who’d slip into the back room or the loos with her, who’d eat her out until she was screaming – or maybe a even a nice, solid bloke she could ride into the floor, let him fuck the need right out of her – so that she wouldn’t be so helplessly aroused by Harry’s innocent touches

But then Harry hums happily into her hair, laughing at a particularly funny bit, and tightens her arms around her, and Louis is completely lost. Of course there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. _Of course_ no nameless girl or bloke anywhere could sate this particular need. Louis’ pretty sure she could find a million ways to get rid of her sexual frustration but she’d still end up wanting to lose herself between Harry’s thighs.

She’s so gone it’s not even funny. It really isn’t funny because falling in love with your best friend is such a stupid, idiotic, dumb thing to do, and there’s only ever a happy ending in romantic comedies. Louis (she claims, loudly and publicly whenever anyone will listen despite the fact that she’ll watch them with Harry any time Harry asks her to) hates romantic comedies. 

The thing is, when it really comes down to it, Louis never stood a chance. Harry had come barreling into her life at the X-Factor bootcamp, all dimpled smiles and brilliant bright eyes, eager excitement and a open vulnerability that Louis had been drawn to like a moth to flame. She – and the other girls, of course, but mostly Harry – had been the one who’d pushed Louis to grow, who’d given her a need to act like an adult (sometimes), to take charge. She’d been Louis’ to _protect_.

And then Harry had shed the baby fat, and instead of the round-faced cherub she’d been throughout the competition, she turned into Louis’ sun and moon and stars, with a body supermodels would be (and probably were) jealous of. Long, gangly limbs turned into legs that went on forever, a trim waist that was absolutely perfect for Louis’ hand, breasts that were just the right size, plump and round and _wonderful_ , and a jawline that could cut glass.

The dimples stayed. The eyes stayed.

Louis was a lost cause.

Sometimes, she’ll admit to getting a bit possessive because she’s loved this girl since forever – she’s loved her since she was all childish beauty and absolutely no grace, and these others – these people – they’re here because she grown into this stunning woman, and while Louis loves Harry’s body and thinks she’s perfect (thank you very much), it’s Harry’s… _Harry-ness_ that makes her special. And Burberry and Ralph Lauren and Saint Laurent, all throwing their clothing at her so she’ll be seen in it – they don’t know shit about that.

So really, Harry is hers. This Harry – lovely and soft and getting sleepy, nail polish chipping, hair in messy curls, eye makeup smudged – this Harry is all hers.

***

A few years ago, back when things had just started and none of them knew what to do with fame, didn’t really even know the meaning of it, they’d had no one else but each other. They’d all lived in the same block of flats and they’d spent days and days piled on one couch or another, playing on the Playstation and squabbling like Louis had almost never done with her own sisters.

Even when they’d all moved out, found bigger and better places, Louis and Harry still spent most of their days at home, curled on the couch, eating whatever Harry felt like cooking and watching whatever they felt like watching.

These days though, they’ve all found a place for themselves at home. Or, at the very least, Louis thinks everyone else has found some sort of place in the whirlwind of celebrity lifestyle.

Zayn disappears from the public eye, usually at home with her mum and her sisters, or at her flat, painting. She’ll turn back up with a beautiful masterpiece and sell it for thousands and thousands of pounds and donate it to charity after charity after charity.

Liam parties with her friends – spends more time at the Funky Buddha, Louis thinks, than at home – and has the social life she never had at school.

Niall flies back to Ireland more often than not, and she’s a celebrity there. Her baby cousin’s the cutest thing in the world, and she spends her time drinking in the local pubs, playing with her baby cousin and generally being a local hero for the people there.

And Harry… Harry’s the one whose managed to become the _most_ celebrity of them all. She doesn’t ask for it, which is both the beautiful and the horrible thing, but she’s _good_ at it. She found a warm welcome with some of the most stylish, most chic celebrities in the London scenes. She gets invites to the most exclusive parties, drinks in the most exclusive clubs, and walks the red carpet at London fashion week dressed up in next year’s fashion and outshines even the most beautiful models. 

Most recently, she seems to have struck a friendship with Nick Grimshaw and when they’re in London, she seems to spend more time at the radio station than at home. She spends more time at Nick’s – or Annie’s or Alexa’s or…. a host of other people’s – than at home. To Louis, it feels like she’s hardly ever home anymore. Everyone loves Harry – everyone wants a few minutes of her time – and Louis doesn’t blame them; Harry’s brilliant. She deserves everything. She’s a _star_.

Louis just misses curling on the sofa and watching bad TV with her girl. Even if Harry’s not really her girl anymore. The truth is… Harry never really was.

Maybe, before London catches up with them, Louis can coax a home-cooked meal out of Harry. Maybe a nice full English breakfast and the perfect cup of tea, and just a lazy morning in their kitchen.

Louis’ about to knock on Harrys’ door to check whether she’s up for cooking for them, hesitating because she’s not sure whether jetlag’ll have knocked Harry out or not, when the door swings open, and there’s Harry, showered and dressed, blinking owlishly at her.

“Lou,” she says, smiling. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”

“Ah, no,” Louis says, beaming back at her. “I actually thought maybe we could have breakfast. You’re cooking it, of course.”

Harry’s face falls. And Louis’ stomach dropped. She knows the answer before Harry even opens her mouth to reply. 

“You’re going out,” Louis says. 

Harry nods. “I told Nick I was coming by,” she explains. “With doughnuts and coffee for the crew.”

“Oh. I see.” What else is she meant to say to that? Probably something. Anything. Anything at all. “Cool. I’ll uh…”

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Harry says, reaching out to grab Louis’ hand and squeezing. Her smile isn’t as bright as it was a few seconds ago. It looks almost… guilty. “We can have dinner together. I’ll make tacos. Okay?”

“Okay,” Louis says, and tries to _be_ okay. She’s not okay. Not even a little. Not at all. “Well,” she adds, pulling her hand out of Harry’s and threading her fingers together behind her back so she doesn’t reach out again, “have fun.”

Harry hesitates. For a second, Louis thinks Harry might change her mind, might stay here with her after all – but then she just nods mutely and walks away. The mobile phone’s in her hand before she’s even out the door and, just before it shuts, Louis hears her saying, “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. I’m on the way.” And her voice sounds much more sure, much more animated than it had been a few seconds ago, holding Louis’ hand and promising to come home for dinner.

Louis turns around and goes back to her room. She’s unzipping her suitcase, watching her hands trembling a little too much, listening to the sound of the silence of the flat when she makes the decision. With one movement, she zips the case back up, grabs her bag and her car keys and heads for the door.

She’s stuck in traffic when she finally picks up her phone and sends Harry a message. Short and sweet.

_Fancied a full breakfast after all. Headed home. See you when I get back._

Almost immediately, the phone pings with a reply. Louis turns it off and throws it on the seat next to her. She doesn’t want to know what it says. She doesn’t even know what she _wants_ it to say – and she’s not sure she could drive with tears in her eyes.

Doncaster’s not home anymore, not really. It hasn’t been in a while. Then again, lately, London hasn’t been either. Given the choice between the two, Doncaster is the one that’s less empty.

It’s where, at the very least, Louis doesn’t feel like she’s alone.

***

She’s right about not getting any time alone. Almost as soon as she’s through the door, she’s got sisters hanging off her arm, all talking at once. Her mum beams at her from behind them before wrapping her up in a warm hug, squeezing her hard and whispering, “It’s gonna be all right, baby,” in her ear like she _knows_.

She probably does. It’s that mum thing she’s always been able to do no matter how long it’s been since Louis’ come home.

There isn’t a full English breakfast waiting for her, but there’s a cup of tea and boiled egg and soldiers, and a table full of girls who love her, and that makes it all a little bit better.

Later, when the girls are all asleep, Louis turns her phone back on and checks her messages. There’s several from Harry – from the sad-faced emoticon for the reply to her text about coming home, to pictures of puppies and kittens, to messages declaring that she misses her already, that the flat’s too empty, that she’s got the fridge all stocked and she’ll make her that breakfast as soon as she comes back. There’s one asking when she’s coming home. She’s almost tempted to say _tomorrow_. 

But the pap pictures online are of Harry at a party, laughing and smiling and half-way to drunk with Nick Grimshaw’s hand on the small of her back. There’s a picture on Nick’s instagram of him and Harry making a midnight snack.

Harry isn’t home. Louis isn’t sure she’s even been back at all.

Her mum passes her a cup of tea and settles on the sofa beside her, turning the telly on and lifting her arm, letting Louis fit herself in against her side like she used to when she was younger and less famous and things weren’t going right. She presses a kiss into Louis’ hair, and Louis closes her eyes, ignoring the tears gathering there.

“Who’s broken your heart, baby?” Her mum asks gently, and Louis just shakes her head.

“No one, mum,” she says honestly. “I’ve broken my own.” It’s not really fair that she’s got a broken heart. It’s not fair because she never got any of the benefits of being in a relationship. And really, it’s not like anything’s changed between them – her and Harry. You’re not supposed to get a broken heart because of friendships that change.

They watch reruns of old shows until far too late, and Louis falls asleep with her mum’s fingers combing through her hair.

Her next stop is Manchester, where she stays in student housing, eating Pot Noodles and kicking Stan’s arse at Fifa over and over again. Stan drags her to an informal, friendly game of footie he has going with some mates, and Louis runs rings around them and kicks the ball into the groin of one guy who promises to “go easy” on her because she’s a girl.

They take her down to the pub to celebrate their victory. She’s three pints in when she hears Harry’s name.

“…bit of a slut, isn’t she, that Harry Styles. Third or fourth walk of shame this week, isn’t it?”

Louis looks over at the two blokes talking. There’s a phone out between them, and Louis slides over so she can see what they’re reading over their shoulders. It’s some sort of gossip magazine, and there’s a picture of Harry. 

Louis’ breath catches. She should be over it, really, considering how long she’s known Harry, how often she’s had Harry’s hand in hers, how often they’ve slept in the same bed, curled on the same couch but… but she’s not. Harry’s still stunning and Harry still takes her breath away.

She focuses on the conversation again. 

“Not like I’d mind watching this particular hookup,” one bloke is saying, leering at the picture. It takes a second for Louis to register that Harry’s long fingers are curled around Cara Delevingne’s wrist.

“More like you wouldn’t mind fucking them both,” the other says, and Stan snorts from beside Louis.

“They’d eat you alive,” Stan says. “As if either of ‘em’d be interested in you anyway.”

The guy laughs. “Are you kidding? Styles would lift her skirt for anything that moves.” Louis punches him in the face. 

There’s a satisfying crack and blood comes pouring out of his nose, and she stands there, glaring, clenching her fists, just _daring_ him to say another word. He doesn’t. Not about Harry anyway.

“You little piece of shit,” he hisses, though the words are pretty indistinct. He’s trying to stop the bleeding and trying to look angry and intimidating at the same time, but Louis’ way too angry to care that he’s twice her size. She could take him. She already has.

“Don’t talk about Harry like that,” she says calmly, though she wants to punch the arsehole’s friend in the face too for even thinking about Harry that way. She wants to take on the whole fucking world.

“Why? She your girlfriend?” the friend sneers, and Louis clenches her fingers into another fist. “Because if she is, she’s cheating on your gullible arse. Every fucking person in Britain knows it.”

Louis takes a step forward, but Stan’s arm comes across her waist, pulling her back. “Just get out of the pub, Justin,” Stan says. “And take Eddy there with you too.”

“What happened with you and Harry?” Stan asks fifteen minutes later. They’re sitting in one of the booths towards the back of the pub, and Stan’s helping Louis ice her knuckles.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Louis says, and Stan gives her a skeptical look. They’ve been best friends since nursery. She’s never been very good at lying to Stan. Louis sighs softly and says, “Nothing. Nothing happened with me and Harry.” She meets Stan’s eyes and watches understanding dawn.

“Oh Lou,” Stan says and he brings her another drink.

***

Louis is very, very drunk, and there’s a girl smiling at her in the bathroom mirror as she washes her hands and splashes some water on her face. She’s got long, wavy brown hair and big, beautifully lined brown eyes. 

Louis turns to look directly at her and offers a small, questioning smile back. 

“Hello,” the girl says. “I saw what you did to that creep Justin. Good on you.”

“Thanks,” Louis says. “He fucking deserved it.”

“He usually does,” the girl agrees. “He’s a little piece of shit. Thinks that just because he’s got a cock and some money, he’s god’s gift to women. Even when they tell him they aren’t interested. Men. Always thinks the world revolves around them.”

Louis snorts. “ _Boys_ are disgusting like that. Think their dick makes them irresistible. Didn’t look so good screaming and clutching his nose though, did he?”

“No,” she agrees. She holds Louis’ gaze as she reaches out and tucks a damp curl behind Louis’ ear. She lets her touch linger. “I’m Eleanor, by the way.”

“Louis,” she says in reply, even though she thinks Eleanor already knows that. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Eleanor murmurs and steps a bit closer. “Want to get away from those _boys_ out there for a while?”

Eleanor isn’t Harry. She doesn’t really remind her of Harry at all, except for the fact that she’s a brunette and she’s wearing skinny jeans. She’s not tall enough and her shape’s all wrong. When she smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes – not the way Harry’s does – and there isn’t any real warmth in her expression as she waits for Louis’ answer. There’s _want_ though, and right now, Louis wants to be wanted.

“Yeah,” she says, sliding her arms up to lock her fingers behind Eleanor’s neck. “Let’s.”

Eleanor’s nothing like Harry, and that’s exactly why Louis lets her take her home.

There are rumous and speculation and blurry pictures the next day, and Louis can’t bring herself to care. With Harry out and about in London, sleeping at any house but her own, Louis’ little fling with a Manchester University student isn’t likely to be of interest to anyone but their most invested fans, and Louis’ used to the theories and speculations, and she’s long since learned to ignore them. Especially when it comes to her love life. She doesn’t think it’s going to be a big deal and so she doesn’t really care.

She’s wrong. Harry disappears from London’s social scene abruptly, and the headlines of the gossip rags are full of speculation about Louis’ “relationship” with the mystery (and then not so mystery) girl. Worse still, the internet is full of speculation about Harry and Louis’.

Eleanor tries to laugh it, tries to tell her not to worry, tries to keep her distracted. She smiles for the cameras that catch them out in Manchester one day, and tangles their fingers together. The picture’s online within minutes of it being taken.

That night, Louis goes back to Stan’s.

Two nights later, at two in the morning, she gets a message from Liam. _I’m worried about Harry,_ it says. _Come home._ It takes her less than an hour to pack her things. 

By three o’clock, Louis’ on her way home.

***

The flat’s completely dark when Louis opens the door. She’s not expecting it to be lit up, not expecting Harry to be awake at arse o’clock in the morning or anything, but it’s a strange sort of quiet. She can’t put her finger on why, but it’s uncomfortable and she doesn’t like it.

With Liam’s message still on her mind, Louis tiptoes over to Harry’s door and opens it a fraction, just to check – just to make sure she’s all right. But even in the dark, Louis can tell Harry’s bed is empty.

She panics.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket and, with shaking hands, dials Harry’s number, thinking, “please pick up, please – please pick up,” not caring that it’s arse o’clock in the morning, just wanting to know where she is, wanting to know that she’s okay. It’s all she cares about.

It takes another moment for the sound of Harry’s phone ringing to break through Louis’ terror. It takes another long moment for Louis to realise it’s coming from _her_ room.

She almost trips over herself trying to get there, throwing the door open and – 

And there’s Harry, sitting in her bed, staring sleepily at the ringing phone in her hand. She’s hesitating, thumb against the screen, looking like she can’t decide whether she should answer it or not.

Louis hangs up and Harry’s face crumples.

“Harry,” she says before Harry can start crying. When Harry’s head snaps up to look at her though, Louis realises she’s a bit too late for that. Harry’s eyes are red and puffy, and if she’d been asleep when Louis had arrived, it hadn’t been a peaceful rest. “ _Babe_ ,” she says before she can help herself. Harry’s lower lip trembles, and Louis crosses the room in three strides, climbs into the bed and gathers Harry up into her arms. “Babe, what’s wrong? Shh – why are you – what happened, love? Who hurt you?’

If anything, that just makes Harry cry harder, clinging tightly to Louis’ shirt like she’s going to vanish if Harry lets go even for a second.

“Shh,” Louis tries to soothe, sliding her fingers into Harry’s curls and stroking her hair. “I’m here. I’m right here. You should have called, sweetheart. I’d have come back faster if I’d known you needed me.”

To Louis’ surprise, Harry shakes her head. Louis frowns, pulling back, tugging at Harry until she gives in and lets her. For a long while, Harry doesn’t meet Louis’ eyes. “Harry?” Louis prompts gently. “Sweetheart, look at me.” It takes Harry another long while to comply. “What’s wrong?”

“You were busy,” Harry says, voice hoarse and cracking. She’s been crying. She’s been crying for longer than Louis’ had her arms around her. “You were with _her_.”

“With…?”

“Eleanor!” Harry bursts out, lips and voice and _body_ trembling. “You were with your _girlfriend_. I couldn’t have asked you – you couldn’t have – shouldn’t have to leave your girlfriend to come and babysit me because I’ve been the biggest idiot in the world and – “ Harry’s voice catches on a sob and the rest of the sentence dies away.

Louis blinks. “Of course you could’ve asked, and of course I would’ve come,” Louis says slowly. “And El… She’s not my girlfriend.”

It’s Harry’s turn to blink at her. “She’s… not?”

Louis shakes her head. “She’s just… she’s a girl I met up in Manchester,” she says, keeping her tone steady even though she’s very, very confused. “I was there to see Stan.”

Harry bites her lip, drops her eyes, hesitating.

“What is it, Haz?” Louis prompts, tipping Harry’s head back up with a finger under her chin.

“But you fucked,” she says, trying to look anywhere but at Louis. With Louis’ finger still under her chin. There’s a wild desperation in her movements. And a sort of defeat that looks entirely unnatural on Harry. Louis wants to make that slump in her shoulders go away. “You stayed at hers for more than a day and you – you wore her clothes and you – you – “

“Fucked,” Louis confirms, and she watches Harry’s shoulders slump even more. There’s defeat in her expression – defeat and a heavy sort of unhappiness that has no place anywhere near Harry. It’s strangely familiar. There’s a suspicion forming in the back of Louis’ mind, niggling and entirely distracting.

“You fucked,” Harry repeats tonelessly, turning away from Louis’ touch and closing her eyes. Defeated.

Realisation hits her like a punch in the face. Oh bloody _hell_. How can she be so stupid? 

“But she’s not my girlfriend,” Louis repeats again, shifting her hand to stroke Harry’s cheek softly. She needs Harry to confirm it though – her epiphany. She needs _something_ from Harry before she goes blundering into this. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Harry doesn’t turn to look at her. “What does she have…” Harry says, almost too quietly for Louis to hear. But Louis does hear it because it’s exactly what she’s been listening for. “What does she have that I don’t have?”

_Hallelujah_.

“Nothing,” Louis says. She takes a firmer grip on Harry’s chin and turns her face back to look at Louis again, keeps that grip steady until Harry gives up, gives in and meets her eyes. “Absolutely nothing, Haz.”

Louis waits for Harry to catch on because, clearly, they’ve both been complete and utter idiots about this whole thing, and they’ve both fucked it up really badly. She waits, not wavering, not looking away, until Harry’s eyes widen and her jaw drops and she lets out a soft whimper of a breath. She waits until Harry _gets it_. Finally.

“Nothing?” Harry asks very, very quietly.

Louis nods. “Nothing. Which is why she’s not my girlfriend.”

Harry grips her arm tightly, digging in her fingers – her nails – so hard that it hurts. But Louis doesn’t pull away – just stays where she is, watching Harry, waiting. “Say it,” Harry demands, hope and despair warring in her eyes – and Louis wants to get rid of that look, wants to drive it away forever and leave nothing but the beautiful sunshine she’s grown to know and love about Harry.

“She’s not you,” Louis says steadily – as steadily as she can manage. “Haz – Harry, there’s no one but you. Not for me. There never has been. It’s _always been you_.”

Harry slams into her, knocking her flat on her back on the bed with Harry straddling her, with Harry’s hands cupping her cheeks and Harry’s lips against hers, kissing her and kissing her and kissing her. Louis never wants to move again.

When Harry finally pulls away, her eyes are shining and her dimples are out in full force. She’s beaming so brightly that Louis’ a little dazed by the brilliance.

“I love you,” Harry declares. “I’m _in love with_ you. Just in case there’s any doubt. And I’m going to make you all the full English breakfasts that you want whenever you want them. Forever.”

She’s so beautiful, so utterly, flawlessly perfect that Louis doesn’t know what to say in reply to that. In the wake of Louis’ silence, Harry’s confidence falters. “I mean… if you want, that is. If you still – “

“Yes,” Louis says immediately, reaching up to pull Harry back down so she can kiss her again. “I want. I still want. I will _always_ want.”

Harry giggles and pecks her on the lips before attempting to pull away. Louis doesn’t let her go.

“Lou,” she says, laughing. “Breakfast. I’m going to go and – I’ve got everything in the fridge already. I’m going to bring you breakfast in bed!”

Louis still doesn’t let go. Instead, she rolls them over, trapping Harry underneath her. “Sleep first,” she says sternly. Or, well, _trying_ to be stern. It’s difficult when Harry’s face looks like it’s about to split open from smiling so widely, and she’s soft and pliant and relaxed under her. Louis makes a great show of patting Harry’s boobs like she would a pillow and settles herself on them. “Don’t think either of us has had much of that lately, and if we’re going to do half the things I have planned, we’d better get some actual rest first.”

Louis didn’t think it was possible to _hear_ someone’s happiness, but she can definitely hear Harry’s. Or sense it. Harry’s radiating contentment underneath her. She settles her arm around Louis’ waist and makes a soft noise of agreement, burying her face into her hair. Within minutes, Harry’s breathing evens out and Louis follows her into sleep.

***  
Harry insists on making breakfast. She won’t take no for an answer. She won’t even be distracted. She insists even with Louis’ fingers trailing very lightly over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, whining low and needy, arching against her, but whispering, “After breakfast, Lou, please.” 

There’s a desperate, almost haunting look in her eyes, and there’s nothing Louis wants more than to make it go away again. And it’s not like Louis doesn’t understand. Breakfast had been Louis’ reason for going away, and _not_ making breakfast represented everything that had gone wrong. Louis understands – god, does she understand – and Harry’s probably right. If they’re going to do this (and they are) then Louis’ got to be sensible and make sure they talk some of it out before they get distracted.

Mostly because Louis plans to get very, very distracted, and she does _want_ to understand. Harry couldn’t have been doing it to hurt her, just like she hadn’t gone away to hurt Harry. 

She moves her fingers away, trails them up Harry’s side instead, but she doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not with that tension in Harry’s body or that uncertainty in her eyes. She leans up and kisses her warmly. 

“Breakfast,” she confirms. “You’d better have the _full_ English waiting for me, babe. I drove all the way to Doncaster and mum didn’t even do me a proper one.” She kisses Harry again and adds, “And I lived off pot noodles in Manchester.”

“Full English breakfast,” Harry promises, surging up to kiss Louis again. “Every day for the rest of our lives, if you want.”

“Maybe not every day,” Louis says against her mouth. “Because everything else you make is good too. But your full English is definitely the best in the world.” She’s not even lying. She might possibly be biased but she loves everything Harry cooks so much. Louis’ more than willing to eat Harry’s cooking for the rest of her life.

Harry beams at her, shadow gone from her eyes, and Louis has to kiss her again before she finally lets her slip away. She takes a nice, leisurely shower, humming happily to herself, thinks that, later, she’s going to coax Harry in here with her. Later, once there’s been breakfast and some conversation and… and who knows? Maybe something even more. She definitely hopes for something more, hopes that _later_ will involve one very, very happy Harry right here with her in the shower.

Louis pulls on a sundress before heading into the kitchen, a small bounce in her step – and almost bounces right into the kitchen doorframe when she catches sight of Harry. 

Harry’s already hard at work by the stove, expertly juggling the various bits that’s going to make up their breakfast. She hasn’t dressed up exactly – there’s no special underwear reserved for this very moment or even one of her very, very sheer tops – nothing at all that gives away the fact that something life-changing happened last night, or that something even better’s about to happy today. 

Harry’s hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail, stray strands curling at her neck. Her skin’s still a bit damp from the quick shower she’s obviously had and she’s wearing Louis’ Doncaster Rovers Belle shirt with Louis’ name and squad number emblazoned across her back. Underneath that, Harry’s pulled on a pair of simple, plain white cotton knickers.

It’s by far the most erotic sight Louis thinks she’s ever seen.

Harry, probably feeling Louis’ gaze on her, turns a little to look over her shoulder and offers her a brilliant smile, and Louis can’t do anything except smile back at her, cross the room and wrap her arms around Harry’s waist, going up on her tiptoes to look over Harry’s shoulder.

“Hi,” she says happily, turning to kiss Harry’s neck, nuzzling in against soft, warm skin.

“Hello,” Harry replies, leaning back into Louis’ hold, slouching automatically to make it easier for Louis to hook her chin over Harry’s shoulder. They’ve done this – or something close to this – a thousand times before, and it’s never felt so good. “I’m almost done.”

“I’ll make the tea,” Louis says, and lifts up a little bit more, right on the very tip of her toes, to press a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. She only manages to catch Harry on the jaw, but it’s close enough. She moves away to put the kettle on before reaching up to pull out a teapot their mugs from the cupboard.

Harry turns to look at her just as she does that. Louis knows because she hears a sharp intake of breath from behind her and, still on her tiptoes and reaching up, she turns to find Harry staring at her bum. Well, at _her_ as a whole – but mostly her bum.

“Please tell me,” Harry says, licking her lips and having to stop to take a breath before she starts again. “Please tell me you’re not wearing any underwear.”

Louis grins at her and deliberately arches her back, letting the dress hitch up a little further. “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she confirms, and Harry actually lets out an audible little moan. 

Louis has to bite her lower lip to keep her grin from growing. Compared to the other girls – to Harry and Zayn, especially, but even Liam and Niall – she’s never considered herself to have the best figure. She even worries about it sometimes, bum too big, everything else a bit too small, and she’s got curves, yeah, but they’re not magazine feature kind of curves and… and right now, it doesn’t even come close to mattering. Harry looks at her like that and she feels on top of the fucking world, invincible, irresistible. She feels perfect.

Harry licks her lips, eyes trailing down Louis’ body, and she holds still, lets Harry look. When Harry finally looks up and meets her eyes again, Louis says simply, “Don’t burn the bacon, love.”

Harry burns the bacon. Louis really doesn’t care.

She sets there with her legs tangled with Louis’, sliding her foot up Louis’ leg without any real purpose except, Louis guesses, except to touch. Louis’ only slightly distracted – Harry’s not really trying to distract her – because she really, really enjoys Harry’s cooking and it really, really has been too long.

She looks up and catches Harry’s eyes, smiling at her around a mouthful. She swallows it before she says, “It’s really good,” and is rewarded with another face splitting grin.

The expression slips for a second – enough for Louis to notice it – so Louis catches Harry’s wandering foot between her own and says softly, “What is it, Haz?”

“I always want to cook for you,” Harry blurts out. “You know that, right?” Louis blinks at her. “I mean,” she clarifies more slowly. “When I – when we got back. When I went out to see Nick… I wanted to make breakfast.”

“But you had prior engagements,” Louis says with a nod, pretending that it hadn’t hurt. Thinking about still hurts a little even with Harry sitting across the table from her, with Harry’s bare skin against her own.

Harry bites her lip and then shakes her head. “S’not just that,” she says, and hesitates, looking uncertain. Louis rubs her foot across Harry’s, soft and reassuring, waiting for her to find the words she’s looking for and continue. “I want to be honest,” is what Harry says, and Louis feels her heart expanding in her chest. It would be easy, she thinks, for them both to brush the past under the rug and try to forget it happened but it’s not the best basis for a relationship. Because a relationship is exactly what they’re going to have. 

“I want you to be,” Louis says encouragingly. “I’m not going to be angry.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry says with a half smile.

“I do.” She pokes a sausage with her fork. “You made breakfast and everything.”

Harry lets out a laugh and, just as Louis had hoped, relaxes. “Okay. I just… I _have_ been avoiding you.” She bites her lip uncertainly.

It’s a bit surprising. Okay, no, it’s a not really all that surprising. Louis swallows her mouthful and says, “Oh. Well, that’s reassuring.”

Harry blinks at her. “Huh?”

“That’s reassuring,” Louis repeats. “I thought I was going mad there. Or maybe getting boring. Or… I don’t know. There were a lot of different scenarios.”

Harry shakes her head, ponytail whipping around, a couple of curls escaping their elastic confines to spring across her face. Louis fights the urge to reach over to tuck it back behind her ear. There’s going to be time for that.

“No,” Harry promises. “No, no, it’s not – I mean… I was avoiding you – I’ve been avoiding you because… because it’s too much sometimes.” She takes a breath and meets Louis’ eyes. “It’s too much. You’re too much. Not – “ Harry quickly continues before Louis can even think about what Harry means by that. “Not in a bad way. In a good way. In all the best ways. You’re _so much_ , and whenever we’re in the same room, I just want to be touching you all the time. I want to be close to you and just… When we’re home and when we’re on tour… I – God, how do I even explain?”

Louis thinks she understands. Louis’ pretty sure she does. “You can look and you can touch, and you can do almost anything,” she guesses. “But you can’t have?”

Harry nods. “And I wanted. So I thought – so the logic was… to be around you less. So maybe I could… want you less. Maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult.”

“Give yourself space to get over it. Get over me.”

Harry nods again. “I thought… maybe if I got some breathing space, being close to you wouldn’t affect me so much. Because when we’re on tour or here at home… I thought maybe if I was more obvious about wanting you, you’d see. You’d get it. Maybe you’d even want me too. If I took off my top enough.”

Louis snorts. “Oh darling,” she says with a shake of her head and a grin. “You have no idea. You drove me fucking _crazy_ with your bloody perfect boobs in my face all the time, and your insanely, stupidly gorgeous legs wrapped around me. Thought I’d fucking die of sexual frustration sometimes. And it was like you didn’t even know you were being stupid sexy - ”

“I kind of hoped,” Harry said with a laugh. “So it worked after all.”

“Yes it bloody well did,” Louis said, laughing as well, releasing Harry’s foot in favour of sliding hers further up Harry’s leg, all the way up to the inside of her thighs. “Little minx.”

Harry bit her lower lip, trying to keep from grinning too wide, happy flush spreading over her cheeks.

“I used to watch you,” Louis says, watching Harry now – checking her reactions, wanting to make absolutely sure Harry was really reacting how Louis thinks she is. “Even though I tried not to. The way you’d take off your bra the moment you could – the way sometimes - _sometimes_ \- you wouldn’t wear one at all, and your nipples would harden under your sheer shirts, and how you’d shimmy out of your jeans, and how you’d skip around in nothing but your underwear. Like you wanted the whole world to see.”

“Only you,” Harry says, voice barely above a whisper. Harry’s breathing more rapidly than she was a moment ago, her lips lightly parted, eyes fixed on Louis. And her eyes were darkening.

_Bingo_.

Louis trails her foot further up Harry’s leg, letting her toes brush lightly against Harry’s knickers, feels warmth and… and yes, wetness. She’s wet just thinking about it.

“I could hear you, you know,” Louis continues as Harry’s breath catches on a soft, helpless mewl. “Getting yourself off. You can’t resist, can you?” Harry shakes her head. “Even when there are other people around. You’ve done it sharing my bed.” Harry mewls louder as Louis presses her foot against Harry’s crotch a little more firmly. “And you liked it, didn’t you? You like it now – like the thought that I watched you and I listened to you and I _wanted_ you. All that time. That’s exactly what you wanted.” Harry whines louder, and fuckfuckfuck, that’s the hottest thing Louis’ ever heard – this is the hottest thing Louis’ ever seen. She can _feel_ Harry getting wetter just from her words, from the sound of her voice. It’s _exhilarating_.

“Look at you,” Louis says, infusing her words with as much warmth and appreciation as she could. “So wet just thinking about it. Absolutely shameless, aren’t you?” She curls her toes a little, digs in a bit harder. Harry’s whine goes up a pitch. It’s absolutely beautiful. “Brilliant.”

“Please.” The word spills out from Harry’s lips almost unconsciously. “Please, Louis – please.”

“Talk first, baby,” Louis says with a smile – so, so, _so_ pleased. “We need to finish talking.”

“Yes, yes and yes,” Harry says in a rush. “Wanted you. Did it on purpose. Wanted you. Love knowing that you noticed. Thought you didn’t.” The words blend together, flowing from one to another – possibly the fastest Louis’ ever heard Harry talk. “So thought I’d – go away, stop, try to stop when I could choose but – but want you. _Love you_. Only you. Always you. Only you. Love you, Lou, love you so much.”

There’s a table in her way but with a declaration like that, Louis’ not going to let a little thing like a _table_ stop her getting to Harry in a hurry. She slides off her chair, under the table, pushes Harry’s chair back and climbs into her lap, sealing their lips together before the whine Harry made at the lost of contact even comes to an end. It turns into a moan that Louis happily swallows.

When the kiss ends, Louis waits patiently for Harry to open her eyes and meet her gaze. Her own smile widens until she can practically feel her eyes crinkling with it. She presses a light kiss to Harry’s lips. “I love you too,” she says honestly, steals the little gasp Harry lets out right from her lips and repeats, “I love you.”

Harry leans up and kisses her again, grinning so widely that it’s actually a little difficult to make that kiss anything more than a peck on the lips. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. And it’s not even close all at the same time.

“Be my girlfriend?” Harry asks, and a laugh bursts out of Louis before she can help herself.

“Seriously?” Louis asks.

Harry pouts. “I’m being serious! Stop laughing.” But Harry’s laughing as well so Louis thinks she doesn’t really mean it. She leans down and presses light kisses to Harry’s lips between soft huffs of laughter before eventually, she manages to stop. They’re both absolutely breathless and grinning stupidly at each other and Louis doesn’t care.

“Be my girlfriend,” Harry insists, kissing Louis before she can protest. Or start laughing again. “Please.”

Louis rolls her eyes and nips Harry right on the end of her nose. “ _Fine_ ,” she says, trying to sound exasperated but she’s pretty sure she fails miserably. Or happily. She can’t stop smiling. “I’ll do it properly. Make an honest girl out of me, Ms. Styles.”

“One day,” Harry says, and it doesn’t actually sound like she’s teasing. “I will.”

Louis feels her throat tightening and she surges forward to kiss Harry again, sinking her fingers into her curls and tugging Harry’s head back as she licks into her mouth, presses more firmly into her lap. She feels Harry’s hand move to support her and, after a moment, slide over her back to slip under her skirt. Harry breaks the kiss with a soft groan. “Fuck, Lou,” she says, wonderfully, beautifully long fingers sliding over her bum and spreading out, squeezing.

“S’a perfect fit,” Louis teases, arching to let Harry explore as much as she wants. “Like Cinderella’s slippers. Your huge hands. My huge arse.”

“Your arse is perfect,” Harry says, squeezing as if to make a point. Louis manages to stop herself squeaking. Barely. “ _You_ are perfect.” She narrows her eyes playfully and pets Louis’ bum. “And you’re fishing for compliments. You know your arse is amazing.”

“I might be aware that some people think so.”

“You _know_ it is. Show stopping amazing. Your arse and your thighs and your _body_ ,” Harry insists. Not everyone thinks so – Louis’ seen the good and the bad comments, and she’s not classically beautiful or model-like but – Harry cuts off her line of thinking by stroking her fingers over Louis’ bare skin, slips the tips along the crack of her bum, parts her own legs so that, in her place in Harry’s lap, Louis has to spread her legs wider too. With an achingly gentle reverence, Harry slides her fingers further forwards and brushes them over Louis’ folds. “You’re perfect,” she says again. 

And Louis believes her.

“Bed,” Louis says. “Take me to bed.”

“Not sure I can wait that long,” Harry admits, and Louis feels the pressure of Harry’s fingers increasing, feels the tip of one slip gently, carefully into her. She whines, hips bucking, fingers tightening in Harry’s hair. “Fuck, Lou. You’re… fuck.” Harry presses a hand to the small of Louis’ back, and Louis arches automatically, pressing herself closer to Harry and giving Harry better access in the same move. Harry slides her finger out of Louis and presses lightly against her clitoris. The move sends a spark through her, makes her rock her hips again, makes her whine even louder. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes again. “Your _reactions_.” She presses against Louis’ clit again, starts rubbing lightly at the nub – and Louis just can’t help herself, can’t stop herself rocking into it, grinding down into Harry’s lap.

“Harry – Haz – please, fuck – fuck, Haz.” She’s used to having a bit more control than this, but when Harry dips her head and bites down on her collarbone, Louis loses it completely. She lets out a keening wail, bucking into Harry’s hand, trying to get more as she bares her neck to Harry’s mouth. Harry makes a sound against her skin and, for a second, that delicious, amazing pressure on her clit disappears but before she can even protest it, Harry’s hand slides over her arse, her thigh, her tummy – and Harry slides two fingers into her, pressing deeper with the change in angle. Louis lets out another sound, a moan of contentment, of want and need and – fuck, Harry presses deeper, curls her fingers as she presses her thumb to Louis’ clit. She’s still mouthing and licking at Louis’ collarbone, and Louis rocks down onto those long fingers, gets her feet under her enough to move, to fuck herself on them as Harry rubs determinedly at her clit, rolls it over her thumb, sends pleasure exploding through Louis until she’s half-sobbing, panting, trying to catch her breath and trying to lose it all at once – and Harry keeps going, keeps moving her hand, fucks into her deep and hard and satisfying, and Louis fucks herself on them, meets each of Harry’s movements with her own.

Harry pulls back to look up at her with wide, dark eyes, panting soft as she takes Louis in, and Louis can read the love there as clear as day, see the wonder, and thinks _mineminemine_. When Harry crooks her finger _just so_ , Louis’ world explodes.

She opens her eyes to find Harry watching her, still stroking lightly over Louis’ pussy – gets a soft whine for her troubles. As soon as Harry meets her eyes, Harry’s lips curl up into a pleased grin – and then… then Louis knows she’s in so much trouble. Harry lowers her eyes demurely, bringing her hand – still slick and wet with _Louis_ \- to her lips, sucking those two fingers into her mouth and moaning low and satisfied. Louis’ breath catches on a groan.

“Bed,” she demands, standing and pulling Harry up by the shirt. “Bed, bed, bed – _now_.” Harry doesn’t resist her, stands and wraps her arms around her, which is probably a good thing because Louis’ still not quite steady on her feet. Harry tugs her in for another kiss, her hands going back under Louis’ dress again, and Louis laughs, delighted. “Bed,” she says with another kiss, tilting her head back and letting Harry kiss her way down her neck. “Want you in bed. C’mon. Gonna spread you out and take my time tasting you, keeping you on the edge until you beg.”

“Please,” Harry replies, and Louis takes the opportunity to clasp Harry’s hands in both of hers, to back up towards the kitchen door – keeps going, keeps leading Harry through their flat to the bedroom, watching her the whole time.

She’s beautiful. She’s so, so incredibly beautiful, sensual and wild, her movements natural and easy, following Louis like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s all she wants to be doing. She watches Louis like she’s all Harry needs, all Harry sees, never breaking eye contact even for a moment.

Louis feels like she’s glowing. 

She beams back at Harry, reels her in for a kiss once they’re in her bedroom, keeps kissing her as she backs up towards the bed, keeps kissing her as she moves back onto her bed and draws Harry with her, laughing when they tumble down onto her duvet, neither of them having thought to put a hand down on the mattress to keep themselves up.

She’s still laughing when she rolls over to straddle Harry’s hips again, reaching down to brush her hair back from her face and, for a second, Louis just stops and _looks_ at her.

“You,” she says happily, “are you beautiful. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Harry says as she slides her hands up Louis’ thighs, pushes the dress up again and, this time, she keeps going, keeps tugging until Louis relents, lifts her arms and lets Harry take it off her. She bites her lower lip as Harry looks her over, feels all kinds of exposed under that stare. They’ve seen each other naked before – there’s not much room for modesty in their line of work – but it’s not really the same thing. She doesn’t have to wait long.

Harry lets out a breath in a rush, like she’d been holding it and hadn’t realised, and tucks Louis’ hair back behind her ears, fingers gentle on Louis’ cheeks, gentle as they move down over her neck, her breasts, her waist to rest on her hips. “Fuck, look at you.”

“I’d rather look at you,” Louis says, sliding one finger down the center of Harry’s face to rest on her lower lip. She drops down and replaces the finger with her lips, kissing her warmly. “And you’re behind, H.”

Harry blinks at her. “Huh?”

“Orgasms,” Louis clarifies. “You’re an orgasm behind.” She bites Harry’s lip hard, sucks on it until Harry lets out a strangled moan, and then shimmies down Harry’s body to settle between her legs. “I like the shirt on you, by the way,” she says as she pushes said shirt up a little further, exposing Harry’s stomach, revealing those wonderfully tantalising laurel tattoos to Louis’ mouth. She’s wanted to lick them for ages – so she does.

Harry’s voice stutters even as she tries to sound unaffected (she’s not). “I thought you might. You’re a bit possessive.”

Louis bites down on Harry’s skin. Hard. Harry squeaks. “A lot possessive,” she corrects, leaning back to look at the red mark in amongst the black of Harry’s tattoo smugly.

“A lot possessive,” Harry agrees, all breathlessness and not a hint of the extremely unconvincing unaffected air she’d been trying to put on earlier. Louis grins as she adds a matching mark to Harry’s other laurel before following the tattoos’ suggestion and trailing her mouth down further, kisses over the white cotton of Harry’s knickers.

She stops right over Harry’s clit, sucking lightly at it through the material. Harry whimpers, spreading her legs wider, arching her back, trying to press up and get more contact. 

“Pleasepleaseplease – Louis – please,” she mumbles indistinctly, breath and words all hitching as she writhes beneath Louis’ body. Louis holds her still with two hands on her hips and sucks harder at the cotton. 

“So wet for me,” she says when she pulls away, blowing air teasingly over Harry’s wet underwear. It gets her another desperate little whine, and that only encourages Louis to tease more, to lick slowly over the dampness of Harry’s knickers before… moving on.

Harry’s whine is distinctly higher, more desperate, body arching up under her. “ _Please_ , Lou,” she begs, voice low and needy. “Please.”

“Hush, my sweet girl,” Louis soothes, pressing soft kisses down the inside of her thighs. “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.” To her absolute amazement – and absolute delight – Harry stills under her, keeps making soft, amazing noises in her throat, but stops trying to make Louis go faster. As a reward, Louis reaches up and tugs Harry’s knickers down with her as she makes her way down Harry’s leg, lifting off the bed and pressing slow kisses against soft, smooth skin. When she looks up at Harry’s face, she’s watching her, her irises barely-there green rings around dark, dark eyes.

_Beautiful._

Louis kisses her all the way down to her toes, moves to kiss her way back up Harry’s other leg. She sucks a mark into the sensitive skin just behind Harry’s knee, watches as Harry’s entire body arches and twists at that, gasping and whining, toes curling as her body searches for some sort of friction. By the time Louis works up to her thighs again, presses her teeth to the skin just beside her opening, Harry’s letting out desperate little sobs, trying to spread her legs even wider, desperate and _wanting_ \- and fuck, her pussy’s very, very wet, pink and delicate and inviting and Louis gives in to temptation, turns her head just a little and licks a slow line all the way across Harry’s folds.

Harry’s whining gets even louder. “Yes,” she hisses, one hand coming up to sink into Louis’ hair, not pressing, not guiding – just twisting her fingers into her hair and clinging. “Fuck – please, Louis, please.”

Louis finally complies, pressing her tongue between the folds and into Harry’s wet, warm heat, licking at it and moaning low as the taste fills her mouth, as _Harry_ fills her senses – and suddenly, the light kitten licks aren’t _enough_.

She shifts her weight, sits up to settle on her knees and tugs Harry closer to her – into her lap – puts Harry’s legs up onto her shoulders and looks down the length of Harry’s beautiful body at the rest of her. The change in position has caused the shirt to bunch up under Harry’s arms, exposing those amazingly perfect breasts, Harry’s hair fanned out messily on the bed above her and… fuck, she’s _beautiful_.

“Gorgeous,” Louis breathes, dropping her head to lick a slow line over Harry’s pussy again, flicks her tongue against Harry’s clit and watches the spasm work its way through Harry’s entire body. One of Harry’s hand comes up, movement almost unconscious, to rub at a nipple as her legs shift against Louis’ back. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.”

Harry’s licks her lips before she manages to whisper, “ _please_ ,” and it’s all the invitation Louis needs to lower her head again and lick into her, eyes not leaving Harry’s face, watching her control – what little she had left – slowly disappear, helpless in Louis’ grip. And blissful with it.

Louis alternates between fucking Harry with her tongue and licking and sucking at her clit, every movement making Harry less coherent, making her body tense and twist, making Harry’s fingers run restlessly over her own skin – grip the sheets – touch her breasts, reaching up towards Louis helplessly, twist in her own hair – watches as she loses it, feels it when Harry’s body tenses under her, sobs getting more and more desperate, needier – closer and closer – until her body goes taunt, breath catching on a moan, sound coming out choked and stuttered, entire body spasming as she comes hard.

Louis doesn’t stop, keeps going even as Harry’s whines get a little more desperate, licks lightly and watches Harry’s face for signs of discomfort. She’s watching her when Harry opens her eyes, dazed and unfocused, and lets out a mewl of Louis’ name. Louis flicks her tongue against Harry’s swollen clit again and Harry’s entire body trembles.

“Lou,” she whimpers helplessly.

“Too much?” Louis asks, mouth still pressed against Harry’s skin, Harry’s taste coating her tongue. Harry shakes her head, and Louis suckles her clit lightly again, watches as Harry lets out another little whine, legs knocking against Louis’ back. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Harry whispers. “Sure.” When Louis sucks a little harder, the whining gets even more desperate, and Harry moves against her, twists a little, jerks like she doesn’t know whether to press into the sensation or to pull away – and helpless to do either. Completely at Louis’ mercy.

She’s still watching Harry carefully as she sucks a little harder on her clit, hums against her skin, alternates that with flicks of her tongue against the sensitive nub – and it takes almost no time at all for Harry’s breathing to speed up again, for her to start making those soft choked sounds, for her body to go taunt, to tremble – and this time, when she comes, Harry screams.

Her body’s still trembling when Louis lowers her legs back onto the bed, not losing contact with Harry for even a moment as she crawls up her body, murmuring soft praise and stroking her skin gently.

“Such a good girl,” Louis breathes. “God, Haz, you’re so wonderful. So lovely. You’re everything, darling – everything and more. I love you so much. I love you so, so much.” She doesn’t stop talking until Harry’s body stops trembling, until she opens her eyes and smiles at Louis, warm and sated and, most importantly, absolutely, beautifully, brilliantly _happy_.

“That,” Harry says dreamily, voice slightly hoarse, “was brilliant. _You_ are brilliant.”

“You’re brilliant,” Louis corrects with a soft laugh, stroking her hair back from her face and leaning down to kiss her sweetly. 

“ _We_ are brilliant,” Harry argues against Louis’ mouth, and Louis lets out a soft laugh, kissing her again – once, twice, three times – before she nips playfully at Harry’s lower lip.

“We _are_ the dream team,” Louis says. “Everyone and everything says so.”

Harry hums her agreement, fingers starting to trail idly over Louis’ skin. It takes less than a minute for the patterns she’s drawing on Louis’ back to become less idle, for those fingers to start moving more purposefully downwards. 

“The dream team,” she agrees before she gives Louis an absolutely, _devastatingly_ wicked little grin. “So, _partner_ ,” she says. “Are you ready to go again?”

Louis grins back, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Bring it,” she says, rolling onto her back and licking one finger to bring it to her breast, rolling a nipple idly in her hand. “My orgasm count’s four.”

Harry rolls over to straddle her. She stops in the middle of pulling off her shirt, head tilting, looking at Louis, confused. “When did you have the other three?”

It takes Louis a moment to figure out what she means, and then she lets out a soft bark of a laugh. “No, darling,” she says fondly. “A night. The most orgasms I’ve had in one prolonged round of sex is four. What’s yours?”

Harry actually blushes and she busies herself pulling the shirt off and folding it with exaggerated care. Louis frowns a little and reaches up to take the shirt from her, throwing it to the floor carelessly. “Darling?”

“One,” Harry mumbles, not meeting her eyes.

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Well, your lovers have definitely been neglecting you.”

“What lovers?” Harry says with a small roll of her eyes and a huff of a breath. Even though Harry’s clearly trying to sound nonchalant, Louis can see the blush spreading down over her chest, and she can hear the uncertainty in Harry’s voice.

_Fuck_.

“The ones…” Louis starts slowly before she stops herself and, instead, just says, “No one?”

Harry hesitates and shakes her head, and then – very slowly – raises her eyes to meet Louis’.

Louis grins at her, reaching up to trail one finger over her cheek lightly. “Oh sweetheart,” she says, stupidly pleased with that revelation. Really, really stupidly pleased with it. She did warn Harry already, didn’t she, that she was stupidly, ridiculously, very possessive? “We are going to have so much fun.”

And just like that, Harry’s face transforms, grin splitting her face like the sun shining from behind the clouds. She leans down and kisses Louis hard.

“Four, you said?” she asks when the kiss breaks. She’s already rubbing the pad of her thumb against one of Louis’ nipples, pinching and twisting, making Louis arch up against her helplessly. “That’s the number to beat?”

“Yeah,” Louis says breathlessly, hardly remember what it is they’re even talking about.

Harry sits back and looks down at Louis’ body, pinching her nipple again, tugs at it until Louis moans. “That doesn’t sound very difficult, does it? I bet you I can beat that.” And then she leans down and replaces her fingers with her mouth, and Louis doesn’t have the breath – doesn’t have the _mind_ \- to come up with a witty answer.

She really, really doesn’t care.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [dea](http://dea.tumblr.com/). Please drop by if you'd like to say hi!


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